


vivid and in your prime

by inamorromani



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamorromani/pseuds/inamorromani
Summary: These things take time. In which Scar can be forgetful and Miles is endlessly patient.
Relationships: Miles/Scar (Fullmetal Alchemist)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 76





	vivid and in your prime

**Author's Note:**

> for saviourfinn on tumblr! I'm actually very proud of this one and writing it was almost cathartic, thank you Laura!

In some ways, Miles still sleeps like a soldier. He lies on his side, his back turned to Scar, and wraps his arms around his waist, his legs stretched out behind him, their ankles the only point of contact between them as they sleep- but there’s still a sort of jumpiness to him. Scar sees in it the muscles of his bare back when he sits bolt upright on nights when the wind howls just a little too loud, rattles the wooden blinds against the hard wrought stone of their bedroom windowsill. 

“It’s fine,” he’ll say dismissively, “Lie back down.”

Without his glasses, Miles looks markedly more severe. His eyes turn up sharply at the corners, and the natural set of his mouth is serious and skeptical, but with his hair loose around his shoulders, he looks young, handsome, furious- the subject of an oil painting, the scorn of aristocracy. 

Miles will narrow his eyes at him, and look to the window. The sky in Ishval is always cloudless, and the moonbeams cutting through their blinds and cloth curtains cast bright blue and orange shadows on his face. He’ll lie back down with a long-suffering sigh, roll his shoulders and sleep. 

He has a handsome profile- unmistakably Ishvalan. Sometimes, when he sleeps, Scar will shift close enough to him that he can see the slope of his nose over his jaw, and fall asleep slowly, propped up on his elbow and thinking about everything he’s ever loved. He thinks that maybe, under different circumstances, better circumstances, he could be a reciprocal sort of lover, the kind Miles could keep on his arm and offer his bicep as a pillow to.  
Scar isn’t arm candy. He isn’t some exotic trophy or some spoil of war, and he loves Miles deeply because he’s humble in a way that so few men are. 

It’s late summer now. It’s about as cold as it can get in the desert, really, and Miles is turned on his side facing Scar’s back. There’s a small pile of paperwork strewn across the room, abandoned by candle stubs and empty inkwells and their uniforms and robes are in piles at the edge of the bed. Scar can’t remember the last time Miles kissed him on the lips, or if he ever has for that matter. 

When they kiss, Miles goes straight for his neck- or his jaw, or his hips, or his hands, and Scar never bothers trying to guide him from the beaten path of his body because touch is touch and he’s starved for it, and maybe Miles is too if his emotionally fraught relationship with his wife- ex-wife, his mind helpfully supplies- is any indication. That isn’t to say that Miles is uncaring, rather, Miles is reserved, steadfast, warm and silent and a mirror to everything Scar could never properly love about himself. 

He turns on his side to properly face Miles, and the bed creaks beneath him.  
Miles still sleeps like a solider. His eyes fly open and his shoulders tense, just a little, just for an instant before he relaxes. 

“Is-”

“You’ve never kissed me,” Scar says matter-of-factly, “Not on the lips. Maybe I’m misremembering, but I don’t think you have.” 

Miles gawks at him for a moment, visibly confused. It’s almost endearing. It makes him look years younger. 

“I have,” he says flatly, “Several times, actually, over the course of our yearlong relationship.” 

Scar scoffs. “You make it sound so domestic.” 

“Isn’t it?” Miles muses. He shifts slightly so his chin is propped in his hand, his eyes bright with mirth. “I kiss you plenty, and I kiss you just about everywhere. Sometimes you forget, and then you wake me up in the middle of the night and ask me- sometimes accusatorily, I might add- if I’ve ever kissed you.” 

Scar makes a quiet, affirmative sound, and rolls on his back. He folds his hands over his stomach. 

“That sounds about right.” 

Miles makes a soft, indignant sound, almost like a laugh, and moves closer, slipping his arm beneath Scar’s neck and drawing him close. 

Scar heaves a sigh. Sometimes it’s easier to forget. Sometimes it’s easier to think of himself as an object, a vessel- it’s easier than being a living thing. It’s easier than being loved. 

“You trick yourself into thinking I don’t want to be close to you, I think,” Miles murmurs, “Or that maybe I’m scared of you.”  
“You should be.” 

“Maybe.”

“I could’ve killed you, you know.” 

“You could’ve. Maybe someday you will. I could care less. In my eyes, you’re absolved of everything.”

A beat of silence passes before Scar tilts his head to the side and kisses Miles’ top lip, carefully, uncertainly. They’d done this before- a hundred times by now, at least. Miles laughs into his mouth and kisses him properly, tiredly, bringing his hands to cup his jaw and hold him close. Scar breathes in deeply. Miles smells like dry air and clean sheets and cold steel. He’s warm- runs so hot that Scar thinks maybe he could cauterize the wounds the war left on both of them. 

He knows Miles isn’t the only one he has to seek forgiveness from- quite possibly, Miles is the last person he has to seek forgiveness from. But he’s there to comb the world for recompense with him, there to temper the heat of the desert and fury in him that simmers and flares up like hives, there as a mirror to himself. Miles carries himself like a soldier- like a hero, like an archetype. Miles is beautiful and aloof and Scar knows that deep down, Miles is angry. 

Miles kisses down his chin, over the ridge of his throat, across the breadth of his shoulders, comes to rest beneath his last rib. Scar holds his breath. 

“You’re absolved of everything,” Miles says quietly. Outside, the wind roars, and then quiets. Scar brings a hand up to his neck to cover the blossoming flush on his dark skin. Miles gives him a wicked, adoring look. 

“On behalf of all righteous things, I forgive you.”


End file.
